


Taking the Dead

by sabershadowkat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabershadowkat/pseuds/sabershadowkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel waylays Spike before the blond vampire reaches Giles's house,<br/>and the two of them are captured by the Initiative.<br/>Rough AU. Starts during Pangs (the Buffy Thanksgiving ep.),<br/>although we messed around a lot with the ep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Cowritten with Tinkerbell (Raging Pixie) http://ragingpixie.bitchenvy.com/fiction.html

**Part One**

Something's coming.

Or, more appropriate, something's already here. In Sunnydale. Aside from myself, I mean.

Fucking Sunnydale, I hate it here. Well, not really. I hate to be here, but I don't hate it here. How could I hate anywhere where Buffy is?

But something cruel and evil is here in this town, something that Doyle saw last night. Something that's coming for Buffy.

*Nothing* will come for Buffy if I can help it.

So I'm here in Sunnydale, skulking around in the shadows, avoiding direct light and keeping my eye out for evilness, when all I really want to do is grab Buffy away from that soldier boy who follows her around like a child.

Stupid soldier boy. I hate him, and I don't even know his name.

It's been nearly 14 hours since Doyle's vision. I've been sort of guarding the Watcher's house since I got here and there's been no sign of anything harmful. Except soldier boy. So when I see Willow and Xander trooping purposefully up the walk, I figure that Giles called them to do research or something. And he usually only calls them for research if there's something that's happened.

I wait, and watch. Here comes Buffy. And GI Joe, naturally, dressed in civilian clothes instead of his big strong macho fatigues.

Would his big strong macho fatigues give him strength if I decided to eat him?

The whole clan is assembled now, safely ensconced inside Giles' house, and guarded by me. Nothing's going to get in there without my noticing.

Movement in the bushes, and I'm instantly alert. 

Something sneaking from shadow to shadow, much in the same way I've done since the sun rose this morning. Except this something is big and black -- oh wait, that looks like a duster thrown over someone's head. It looks like my duster, actually, and the only other person I know who has a duster like mine is...

Spike.

No, I plead silently, no, please don't let it be Spike. Don't let it be my errant boy, because if it is, then that means that this is Buffy's danger.

How do I protect one of my loved ones from one of my loved ones?

I watch with a kind of awed horror as he sneaks even closer to the front door, his ridiculously blond hair peeking out from under the faded, soft black leather of his jacket.

Why aren't I doing anything? I have to stop him, I have to say something so that he knows I'm there. He can't go in there, I can't let him get to Buffy.

Oh, my God. Make a decision, Angel. Do something.

*****

I don't want to do this.

I don't want to die, either.

But, I only have two choices. I can either starve to death, which, might I add, I'm already bloody well doing, or I can knock on that door that's less than ten yards from me.

The door that leads to the Watcher of my mortal enemy.

Unlife's a bitch, isn't it?

Buck up, mate, it's not like I don't have something to trade. Those commando-pricks had tried to take Willow, and I know how overprotective the Slaying Slut is of her groupies. I've gotten my sexy arse kicked on many occasions for trying to harm one of her pet humans.

Of course, how my luck's been runnin' lately, I'll prolly get staked before I can even say howdy-do.

Well, I'm not getting any eats by standing in the bleedin' shadows with my duster and a blanket pulled over my head. I'm going to walk over there, bang on the door and demand to be fed in exchange for information. I'm just the vamp with the knackers to do it, too. The other wankers would prolly let themselves waste away before turning to their enemies, but that sort of idiocy turns you to dust. I'd rather get fed, get strong again, then come back and rip my enemies' throats out for helping me as thanks.

I move from shadow to shadow rather quickly because I'm all out of aloe and I hate to peel. Is it just me, or is the door getting larger and larger the closer I get to it? Maybe I'm still asleep and dreamin' that I'm Jack or something, and a giant is going to be waiting for me behind the door.

'Fe fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread...'

*****

Move, dammit, I think to myself. Say something. Whatever you do, do NOT let  
Spike get into that house and hurt Buffy.

The fact that she could clean the floor with his ass escapes me for the moment as I watch him slinking closer and closer to the front door, and closer and closer to my hiding place. He's so close now that I can see that not only does he have a duster over his head, he's got some ratty old brown blanket protecting him too. He must really want to get to her bad, if he's out in the daylight this way.

Finally the message reaches my foggy brain that I have to do something other than stare at my wayward childe as he slinks by.

"Spike," I hiss through clenched teeth. I'm so pissed off.

His head snaps up, and the first thing I think is, 'He looks like death.' The blue eyes that meet mine are rimmed with red and have seemed to have sunk back into his skull, making his cheekbones protrude painfully. His lips are nearly the same color as his skin, causing me to wonder about how long it's been since he's eaten.

Now I'm *really* pissed off, but no longer at him. At whoever or whatever's done this to him.

His eyes widen when he sees me, and then he does something so unexpected that I'm caught totally off guard.

"Angel," he murmurs with relief, and launches himself at me.

I'm in a crouch, so I try to catch him safely but end up tumbling backwards, deeper into the brush. At first I think he's attacking me and I prepare to defend myself against him. It pains me to do it, but I bring up a closed fist and am about ready to knock him out when I realize that he isn't fighting me.  
He's actually trying to use me to hide behind, as if there were some foreseen danger out there.

I still don't see anything, but I know something's coming.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask him, trying to turn to look at him, but he keeps his head down and his body behind mine.

"Get me out of here," he mumbles, and it alarms me even more than I already am.

"Why?" I demand. If something's after him, I need to know about it. I have to protect him from it. Never mind the fact that he's William the fucking Bloody and all that rot, this is my *childe* and I'm going to make him safe.

"Government," he snarls, trying to sound fierce but the fear in his eyes is apparent. "Soldiers and guns and tasers. They put something in me, Angel, the stupid bloody fucks put something in my head and stuck me in a cell and took fucking notes on me!"

We are getting out of here *now*. We are getting out of here because my boy sounds frightened, and Spike isn't frightened by anything. I don't know yet what to do about Buffy, it tears my heart to think of leaving her when she's in some kind of danger. 

But Spike... Spike is cowering at my feet like a pup and that scares me even worse than whatever's scaring him.

I stand, pulling him with me, and drag his coat and blanket over both of our heads. I'll bring him back to Los Angeles, I decide in a moment. I'll bring him back, instruct Cordelia to be nice to him, and then come back here to watch Buffy.

Then I'll find out whatever did this to him, and I'll kill them.

Mentally calculating how far it is to where I parked the car, I start to make a dash for it with Spike dogging my heels. But before either of us can take more than a couple of steps, the world suddenly is blocked from my view and I feel heavy rope drop onto my head. Instinctively grabbing for Spike, I pull him close to me and try to whirl around to see what's behind us.

The only thing that fills my vision is an enormous crossbow, aimed directly at my heart.

It takes me a second to clue in that the rope on my head is actually a net. A stupid goddamned net, like they use in cartoons to catch people. 

Spike hasn't made a sound since it dropped on us, but beneath my fingers, his arm is so tense it's shaking. Immediately I know that these are the "government" people he was talking about.

They move in from their assigned places, smirking at us. They aren't stupid, these government boys, they've each got a crossbow and a high powered rifle. And both Spike and I have one aimed at us from the front and from the rear.

But if they think I'm going to walk willingly with them to wherever they want us to go, they're dumber than they look. When one of them prods me with his bow, I can't help but shift into gameface and snarl at him threateningly.

Smart, Angel. Very smart, I think, as I watch him raise his rifle and turn it so the butt is facing me. From behind, someone shoves my head down and I can see them doing the same thing to Spike, and I curse myself because I'm about to get both of us hurt. 

And that's the last thing I think, because they knock both of us unconscious.

**Part Two**

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck...

I pull wildly at the net holding me captive. I have to get it off me. I have to get out of here.

The world went from black to white five seconds ago. White, white, white, white, white, white, white. White walls. White ceiling. White floor. White fucking reflection in the fucking glass. Everywhere, it's white.

I'm not panicking. See me not panicking?

My snarl echoes against the white walls as I finally get myself free of the effin' net. I don't realize I'm scrambling on all fours to the far corner of the cell until I spin around and rest on my haunches with my back to the wall.  
Bloody fucking hell! I'm a master vampire, not a wild animal, so act like it!, I tell myself. I'm William the fucking Bloody, childe to the infamous Poofball of Europe, with knackers the size of bowling balls and both of 'em made of steel. I fought Buffy the soddin' vampire fucker, the greatest Slayer anyone's ever frickin' seen or heard of, and I've stayed unalive! I lived with Drusilla for a hundred bloody years! I survived that twat, Harm, with her whiny voice, constant blabbering, and nothing but air in her blond head!

I hear a low hiss of annoyance and my eyes go from staring out the glass wall to the figure struggling against the net. I see Angel pull the heavy woven ropes from over his head and it flattens his primped hair. He scowls and my lips pull back in a feral smile. Those soldier-pricks are in big trouble now -- they've messed up Angel's hair.

Angel's head slowly turns as he scans the cell we're in, the net now bunched up on the floor beside him. When his dark eyes land on me, I can easily read the anger and disgust in them before they soften slightly in concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice unnaturally loud in the emptiness of the white, white cell.

No, I'm not okay! I want to yell. No, I'm not fine! And no, before you say it, everything won't be all right! We're locked in a cell like a couple of lab rats and they're going to dissect us!

None of that comes out, though. Instead, when I open my mouth to scream at him, this high-pitched whine-howl bursts from my throat. I don't know who is shocked more -- him or me. I've never, never, never!, made a sound like that before. What the bloody hell is happening to me?

Angel is at my side before I can blink. Fuck, that vampire can move. He kneels in front of me, blocking my view of the glass wall, and puts his hands on both sides of my face.

"You need to calm down," he says in a low, hypnotic voice. "I'll get us out of here, but I need you to be calm."

Calm?! Fuck calm! We're going to be poked and prodded and probed like in an X-Files episode, and he wants me to be calm?!

Angel leans forward and rests his brow against mine. His dark eyes are fathomless and a bit crossed from being this close to me. I have the sudden urge to play that kid's game; the one where you close your eyes, get nose-to-nose with someone, count to three, open your eyes wide and make a sound like an owl.

Now that I think about it, that is a really fucking stupid game.

"Look at me, Spike," Angel says, drawing my attention back to him and his chocolate eyes.

Ooh, chocolate, I could use some of that.

"Spike," Angel repeats my name with a sharpness in his voice. "Pull it together."

I see movement out of the corner of my eye, just past Angel's broad shoulder. I focus my gaze past him and see two white lab coats standing beyond the glass wall.

White, white, white, white, white. Oh bugger, we're going to die. I don't want to die. I still haven't killed Buffy. I haven't stuck it to Drusilla for breaking my heart again. I haven't shagged anyone at the top of the Empire State Building. I still have to touch up my roots.

Angel suddenly spins around, his body rising into a crouch directly in front of me, his arms splayed to the sides. I hear a threatening growl roll throughout the cell. I can't see the lab coats anymore because my big-arse sire is in the way. I can't decide if it's good that I can't see them, or if it's bad. Do I really want to know when my death is coming?

Sod it all, I sound like a great steamin' poof. What the effin' hell is wrong with me?

"Welcome back, Hostile 17," I hear an authoritative female voice say. "We've missed you."

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck...

*****

 

Jesus fucking Christ, where the hell are we?

We were tossed into this... room, I guess you'd call it, just thrown unceremoniously in on our asses with the net still tangled between us, and immediately I scrambled to assess the situation.

So now I'm assessing it, and it doesn't look good. Aside from the fact that my head is pounding with the regularity of a clock. Damn stupid rifle.

Making a sound of annoyance, I finally disentangle myself from the rope net and kick the thing away to land in a pile like a giant dead bug. I put my hand to my head and find that my hair is flattened. I try to spike it back up a bit, but I know I'm unsuccessful. 

I could use some gel right about now.

I turn slowly, scanning the room that's actually a cell, and my eyes are starting to hurt from the brightness of it all. I know that the glass in front of us is reflective, and I'd bet my last bag of A-positive that there are humans on the other side.

Where the *hell* are we?

Sure that Spike knows the answer, I turn to him. He really hasn't made much noise since we got here.

Expecting to find him standing next to me, I blink in surprise when I see him sitting all scrunched up against the far wall, his stark blue eyes wild and his even white teeth nibbling at his bottom lip.

I had forgotten his fear in my own confusion. How could I have forgotten?

"Are you okay?" I ask carefully, not wanting to upset him further but becoming more and more concerned at the wildness of his eyes. My voice is so loud in the emptiness.

He opens his mouth to answer me, but instead of the usual profanity or wisecrack, he lets out this terrified whine that reminds me of a puppy that's just been kicked.

That's the most frightening thing that's happened yet.

I'm down on the floor with him in an instant, making sure to position myself in front of the glass so he can't see it, and I put my hands on the side of his face to make him focus on me.

He feels small, and fragile.

I know he's not, though. But he feels it.  
"You need to calm down," I murmur in the lowest voice I can. I know there are people listening, even though I still can't tell where in God's name we are. "I'll get us out of here, but I need you to be calm."

 

Because if he doesn't calm down, I think I might really lose my temper. Who the fuck do these people think they are? Look what they've done to *my childe*.

He struggles against my hands, shaking his head 'no', and for a moment I let a tiny frisson of fear penetrate my calmness. Spike knows what's going to happen to us, and if it's possible for them to frighten him this much, would it be possible for them to do the same to me?

And then I push the thought away because I have to get some answers from Spike, and I have to remain in control because he certainly isn't going to.

"Look at me, Spike," I command him, bringing my face in close to his.

He does.

"Spike, pull it together," I snap, thinking that maybe if I'm harsh with him, it'll be more effective than just gathering him close into my embrace and rocking him like a baby.

Now wouldn't he just love *that*. To be humiliated further in front of whoever brought us here.

I'm about to shake him fiercely by the upper arms and try to make him be quiet for a second, because the little whines he's making in the back of his throat are tearing me up and I can't think about anything except comforting him.

But instead, I drop my hands from him and whirl around, knowing that suddenly there are people behind the glass. I can see the reflection of their white coats. Making sure to block Spike's view, I can feel a growl start to curl its way up from my throat and I know that I sound like a damn jungle cat but  
I can't help it.

Instinct says to warn away predators.

There's a soft click, and then at once I can hear something other than the sound of my own growling and Spike's barely audible whimpers.

"Welcome back, Hostile 17. We've missed you."

Hostile 17? Who's Hostile 17?

And where the *hell* are we?

 

*****

I've never claimed to be the smartest vampire in the world, but I normally have at least an ounce of common sense. But before anyone could say "bloody hell!" a fog of terror descends over me and my primal instinct takes control.

I shove past Angel and launch myself at the glass separating me from the white lab coats.

Bzzt!

Just like a bug-zapper, I get shocked. I fall back onto the white floor with an ungraceful thud.

I scramble to my feet and throw myself, shoulder first, at the glass again.

Bzzt!

Thud.

Immediately, I do it again.

Bzzt!

Thud.

And again.

Bzzt!

Thud.

And again.

Bzzt!

Thud.

The acrid stench of electrified flesh is strong around me. Blood is trickling from the corner of my mouth. My bones feel like they're made of rubber as I push myself to my feet and prepare to throw myself at the glass another time.

Angel steps in front of me.

I growl at him.

He growls back.

I growl louder.

He punches me.

I fall on my ass.

"Get it together!" Angel's dark eyes are spitting with anger. "Now!"

I tackle him with an animalistic cry.

Angel's head makes a loud crack when it hits the white floor. I'm on top of him instantly, swinging wildy. He snarls, grabs my wrists and head-butts me.

Fear and fury coalesce into a ball of fire that spreads throughout my body. I let out a roar and rip my wrists from his grasp. My face twists into its true ridged-features, and I attack my sire with intent to maim.

My claws sink into Angel's neck and tear his pale skin. He doesn't make a single sound as he grabs my wrists a second time, props his feet under me and throws me over his head.

I hit the floor with a loud smack. I scramble to my feet and attack again. Angel is ready, though, and my head flies to the side with his powerful punch. Blood spews from my mouth and splatters against the glass.

He grabs my upper arms and runs me backwards until I slam up against the side wall of the cell. He gets right up against me, invading my personal space, and a low, ominous rumble fills the cell.

I freeze for the barest of seconds, then long-ingrained responses kick in.

I drop my eyes and tilt my head to the side.

Angel strikes quickly and with deadly accuracy. The sharp sting of his fangs as he pierces my neck causes me to hiss. He takes a single deep pull from the stolen blood still left in me, then removes his canines and runs his tongue once over the wound.

"Easy, childe," he whispers in my ear. "Rest easy."

Angel's words penetrate the fog that enshrouds me. Who I am, what I am and where I am all come flooding back into my brain. Humiliation burns through me.

"Get off," I tell Angel, although I don't struggle against him.

Angel pulls back far enough to look me in the eyes. "Fix your face," he says quietly after a minute.

I pull on my control and my human mask descends back over my features. "Happy?" I sneer.

"Depends," Angel says, holding my gaze.

When I realize he isn't going to release me, I roll my eyes and say, "I'm easy, you bloody wanker."

Angel holds me for a moment longer, then nods in apparent satisfaction and takes a step back. I shrug the tension from my shoulders, face the glass, flick off the two lab coats standing on the other side, then stalk to the back of the cell.

Bugger, I need a fag.

*****

I just stand there and growl at them for the good part of a minute, waiting.

For what, I don't know. But something's about to happen.

The something that actually happens is in the form of Spike, who has gotten up from the ground and comes to stand a little behind me. I try to move again so he can't see the people through the glass, but all of a sudden he pushes right past me and takes a flying leap toward the window.

I make a grab for him, but too late.

There's a gut-wrenching zapping noise and I can practically see the electricity arcing through the air as he flies backwards to land in a pathetic heap against the wall.

Turning to him, I'm about to ask if he's all right, but he's on his feet quickly, and damn it all if he isn't about to launch himself again. 

My panic is growing, and I can't tamp it down. Spike's losing it.

Again, I make a grab but I'm too slow, because he repeats the fruitless act of trying to break the unbreakable glass.

And again, he's thrown against the far wall with a thud that makes me wince. Now he'll stop, I think. He won't do it again.

Except he does.

I start yelling his name. He either can't hear me or is ignoring me -- which is so like him -- and continues to hurl himself against the glass like a trapped animal.

Which he is, I suppose. We both are.

But I can't let him keep doing this because now he's bleeding pathetically from the mouth and I'm hoarse from yelling at him, and I can practically hear the smirking from the self-righteous assholes behind the window.

With the growl still rumbling in my chest, I finally block his movement by simply stepping in front of him.

He makes a nice show of growling at me. 'Uh huh,' I think. 'Pretend you don't want me to stop you from pounding your brain into mush against that wall.'

All I have to do is growl right back at him, a little louder, to provoke his already high anger, and when he begins to flare his nostrils and snarl, I just punch him.

He was out of line.

Never growl at me.

He glares hatefully at me from his spot on the floor, and then I get *really* pissed off. For Christ's sake, is he not understanding that we have to count on each other? "Get it together!" I shout at him. "Now!"

God, I don't have time for his childish displays of temper. I look away for an instant to see if I cut my knuckles when I hit him, and then my head is snapping against the white tile floor because the little shit actually has the balls to tackle me.

Well, at least he isn't trembling anymore.

But this is really getting tiresome.

He's swinging wildly, not really focusing on his target, so it's easy for me to just wrap one hand around his wrists and slam my forehead against his. 

I don't think it's possible for Spike to become even angrier, but now he is. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm understanding that he's merely venting his fear and frustration on me in the form of physical anger.

I'm understanding this, but I don't like it. Because, *fuck*, I think I split my head open when he slammed me to the goddamned ground.

And then I've had enough, because he's *still* out of control, and when I see his eyes grow yellow and his claws descend, it's the breaking point for me.

He has just enough time to scrape the skin of my neck with his sharp nails before I make a grab for his wrists and throw the damned obnoxious jackass over my head to land flat on his back.

And still, he comes for me.

GodDAMNit, Spike!

He gets a strong cross punch for his trouble, spattering the glass as well as the pristine white floor with his blood, and while he's still shaking his blond head to clear it, I grab him by the upper arms and slam him straight into the wall.

I'm so close to him I can see the tiny black flecks in his eyes that mar the yellow-gold. And I hate to do this, I hate to lord my domination over him, but I have no choice.

My growling hasn't stopped the entire time, and now it's the only thing either of us can hear. He stands utterly still for a half second, then finally acquiesces.

His eyes drop to the floor and he gives the barest tilt to his head, exposing his vulnerable neck.

It's smooth and fast and over before the idiots outside even know what I've done to my childe. With a long-practiced movement, I prick Spike's neck quickly and accurately and take a smooth swallow of the blood that wells up.

Then my fangs are out of his neck and I make a quick pass with my tongue over the already closing wound.

My hands are still gripping his upper arms as I whisper to him. "Rest easy."

I can see him visibly return from wherever his fear has taken him. He blinks once at the floor and makes a quick glance to his left, as if he's absorbing the information that his muddled brain is now giving him.

"Get off," he says, half-heartedly.

Ah, now *that's* my brave Spike.

"Fix your face," I tell him, not wanting the observers outside to garner more information than they already have.

He does, sneering at me. He wants me to let go, but I don't think he's ready. I eye him carefully.

"Happy?" he tosses out.

"Depends."

"I'm easy, you bloody wanker."

He must be, if he's insulting me. I relax a little.

Letting go of him, I watch as he gives the finger to the observers outside.  
Leaving him to his own devices on the other side of the room, I scan the cell slowly while keeping my head down.  
No use letting government boys know that we're going to get the fuck out of here.

 

**Part Three**

Angel casually watches the white lab coats on the other side of the glass until they decide that we've given them enough of a show and move on. Then, he turns and walks to me, a concerned look in his soulful brown eyes.

Which means I'm more fucked up than normal.

There's a written code between us. I hate him; he hates me; and the only eye-contact we have is if we're glaring at one another.

Now, he's looking at me all worried-like and I... I... lean back against the wall and slide to the floor, because I'm suddenly knackered. Maybe throwing myself at the electrified glass wall wasn't such a bloody good idea.

Angel crouches in front of me, his neanderthal brow wrinkled in consternation, and, for a full minute, he stares at me with those insufferable, piercing brown eyes of his before the tosser speaks. "Where are we?"

"Some underground lab," I answer dully. I drop my eyes, not wanting to be peeled apart like a soddin' onion by his sharp gaze, and I pick at a small tear in the knee of my trousers.

"Do you know who these people are?"

Sire wants to play Twenty Questions, what fun. "Soldiers. Lab coats. Demons in cages like rats," I reply snippily.

"Is this the 'government' you mentioned before?" Angel asks. There's a slight strain to his voice, telling me that I'm already getting on his nerves.

Good.

"Yeah," I say. The small tear in my knee is now larger. Damn. Gonna have to get me a new pair of denims. I hate shopping.

"Who's Hostile 17?"

My head snaps up at the question. For a second, I'm pleased at the annoyed expression on his face. Then, reality in the form of a beep smacks me upside the head, and a hard knot forms in my stomach.

I don't bother to look up. Angel does, and I see his annoyance turn to puzzlement as two blood bags drop from the hole that just opened in the ceiling. They land on the floor in the center of the cell with two little slaps.

I can smell the blood, even through the plastic of the bags. Human. O-Positive. Very fresh.  
Drugged.

I close my eyes and start to bang the back of my head against the wall. I begin to hum a little ditty to the rhythm of my skull connecting with the hard wall. Soon, the white wall is going to be stained red with my blood. At least then I'll get something to eat. Licking a wall can't be that disgusting. Cats do it. Dogs do it. Why not me, too?

Suddenly, there's a softness between my head and the wall, and I hear a soft curse as I bash my head against Angel's hand. Serves the prick right. He should know better than to get between a man's head and his wall.

A giggle bubbles from my throat and spills out into the open. Where's my straitjacket? I'm getting looney here. Lack of feeding does that to a vamp, even to one as great as me.

Fuck, I'm so hungry.

Angel's cradling the back of my head, preventing me from starting up my Matthew McConaughey imitation again. Of course, I'm wearing too many clothes to be a proper mimic, but I'll be naked soon enough. Hard to probe a bloke otherwise.

Another giggle, this one is accompanied by a tear escaping from behind my closed eyelids. Damn it, I didn't want to cry in front of the poof. I didn't want to cry, period. I'm the Big Bad. Grr and all that rot.

"Get me out of here, sire," I whisper, my voice cracking. My lower lip trembles uncontrollably as I try to hold back the tears that threaten to come falling down.

"I will." Angel's voice is equally as soft, but I can hear the hard promise in his words.

He will get me out of this underground shithole. He will protect me. He will act like my sire, and not the vampire with a soul who hates me.

I wipe my teary eyes before opening them. Peaches is watching me carefully. There's a coldness to his expression that sends a shiver down my spine. I'm looking at the vampire who's been to hell and back, and didn't break.

What the bloody hell had I been thinking when I tried to torture him?

Okay, technically I didn't torture him, I paid someone else to do it. I only helped a little. Gave myself a bloody hard on, too, while doing it. I'd wanted to tell Marcus to take a hike, strip Angel's trousers off, wrap myself around my sire's hulking body, and hump him like a bitch. No way I'd have taken the chance of unchaining him to fuck him properly. Give the soddin' nonce an inch, and he'd pull a Houdini before I could get my trousers down.

"Are you hungry?" Angel asks me.

I snort. "You could say that."

He starts to move to retrieve the blood bags, but I stop him. "It's drugged," I say.  
Angel frowns. "Are you sure?"

"No, I'm lying to you. I happen to like starving myself to dust."

His frown deepens. The poof is the only one I've ever met who could make his frown deepen like that. Must be a side-effect of having a soul.

"When's the last time you fed?" he says.

I shrug. "'Bout two weeks, maybe more. Depends on how long it was before I woke up, the first time I was down here."

"The first time?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear? I'm Hostile 17."

Which gets me to thinking: am I only the seventeenth demon the blighters have caught? Or do they recycle numbers? From the looks of things, this place is pretty well established. They prolly just can't count without using their fingers and toes.

Angel nods slowly, and I can tell he's agreeing with something he's thinking rather than with whatever I said. He shifts and looks around the cell. He stares intently at the top left-hand corner of the glass wall, and I look to see whatever it is he sees.

There's a camera just outside the glass, its black lens pointing into the white prison we're sitting in.

Fuck.

"I want you to feed," Angel says, returning his intense brown eyes to me.

"What? But it's drugged." Didn't I just tell him that it was drugged? I could've sworn I did.

"Drugged or not, it's blood," he says. "And you need to eat."

"But I don't need them to do something else to me!" I exclaim. "I already can't bite anyone!"

"Shh," Angel puts his hand on my knee, "keep easy."

"Sod off," I growl at him, but I make myself relax. I've got an effin' headache as it is, from throwing myself against the electrified glass, I don't need to compound on it.

"Spike, look at me," Angel instructs.

I meet his eyes and sigh. I know with that one look that I'm going to do what he wants, the wanker.

Angel leans closer to me, his back to the glass wall and the camera, and whispers in an almost inaudible voice, "I would somehow feed you with my blood, but at least one of us needs to be at full strength."

I look at him in surprise. Sire's blood was not something that was offered at a drop of the hat. I can count on one hand the number of times I've drunk the unbelievable elixir that courses under my sire's skin. I know that the source of that blood is the same -- although now the poof gets his sustenance from bags rather than from people -- but something happens within an older vampire's body that makes the blood taste better, stronger, magical even.

It's prolly all just a head-game. Psycho-whatcha-ma-fucking-call-its. Either way, sire's blood is the shit, and I'd give my left nut to drain Angel dry.

Of course, the hairball might have a problem with that.

"I won't let them get you, childe," Angel says softly, his dark eyes hammering his promise into my head.

Bloody hell, you big... soul-having... poncey... How the fuck is a bloke supposed to hate you when you act all wonderful-like? I think.

I reach out and take his hand in the mystical super-secret vampire sire-childe grip. Another little giggle tumbles from between my lips before the made-up name for my nancyish action finishes running through my brain. Oh yeah, the funny farm is gonna be gettin' a blond vampire to add to their menagerie.

Angel doesn't say anything. He just squeezes my hand and waits for me to give him a sign that I'm not about to throw myself at the glass wall again.

I swallow back the nauseousness I'm feeling, yank my hand from his, and crawl across the floor to the blood bags -- two innocent-looking blood bags that are guaranteed to send me off to beddy-by-land, where I won't know what's going on and I won't know what else they're sticking in me.

I slip into gameface, rip off the corner of one of the bags, and guzzle its contents down. I'd say that the blood was ambrosia to my starving body, but the thought of how vulnerable I'm going to be as soon as the drugs kick in puts a damper on its effects. And I can taste whatever drugs they used, a sort of sweet-syrupy taste that sticks in the back of my throat.

The second bag is emptied as quickly as the first, and I throw it against the glass. The blood spurts out and smears against the clear wall. It joins the blood from my face caused by Angel's earlier punch.

Prick.

I don't bother to get up. Instead, I crawl to the left front corner of the cell, position myself so my back is to the white wall, pull my knees up to my chest and resume picking at the growing hole in my trousers. I moved to this spot specifically, because the camera view is the weakest right below it. I'm careful, though, to keep a safe distance between myself and the glass wall. Don't want to get zapped in the middle of nappy-time.

Angel stands, walks over to me, and sits down between me and the glass wall. I should have expected that. Protective poof.

We sit in silence... well, as silent as an underground lab with cages full of irate demons can be. I pick on my torn knee and try to name as many demon cries that I can recognize, all the while awaiting unconsciousness to overtake me.

I hate waiting.

*****

He looks awful.

More awful than he did when I caught him skulking around outside of Giles' place.

Of course, hurling himself blindly at the electrified glass did much for contributing to his awfulness.

Stupid, stupid childe. *How* could this childe be the blood of my blood?

I will never stop wondering at the answer to that question.

He's watching me warily, and I must have some kind of expression on my face that he doesn't trust because his brow furrows and he looks away.

Slowly, carefully, he slides down the wall to the floor and sits gingerly.

I would break every damn bone in his body if I didn't know he was already in serious hurt.

Instead, I crouch down in front of him to try to get some answers. Amazingly, he meets my gaze. It's only when I speak that he drops his eyes.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"Some underground lab," he mumbles, while fiddling with a hole in his jeans. I want to take his hand away from the little rip and squeeze it in reassurance.

He would hate that.

I try again, this time hoping to get a little more detail. "Do you know who these people are?"

Duh, Angel. Obviously he knows who these people are.

And now he's getting a little feisty again because he snaps out single words.  
"Soldiers. Lab coats. Demons in cages like rats." His tone is sharp, but I let it slide. He's under stress. In a normal situation, though...

In a normal situation we'd be fighting like dogs.

Because I hate him.

All right, one more try. "Is this the 'government' you mentioned before?" I hope he can tell I'm a little annoyed.

A lot annoyed.

"Yeah," he mutters.

Man of few words, Spike is. When it suits him.

"Who's Hostile 17?"

Well, that question seems to pique his interest because he looks up at me with an 'are you kidding?' expression. But before he answers, we're interrupted by a buzzer sounding from somewhere in the ceiling, and two fat blood bags drop through a hole that's magically opened.

Human blood, I realize.

I'm hungry, too.

And if *I'm* hungry, the boy next to me must be starving. 

I don't stop to wonder about the fact that they're feeding us. Stupid me. All I can smell is the fresh blood in that bag, and I want it. And I want Spike to eat, too.

Expecting him to make a mad rush for the food, I'm momentarily confused when he merely glances at it and then closes his eyes and begins to hum. His head begins to bounce off the wall behind him, softly at first and then harder and harder until I'm afraid he's going to make the wound on his head even worse.

Whatever is wrong with him is magnified by being in here. I've got to get him out.

Concerned about his head, I put my hand between his hair and the wall in an attempt to make him stop inflicting pain upon himself. He just smashes my hand instead, and I curse.

He giggles when he hears it. 

Great. Spike giggling is never a good thing.

And now his giggles are accompanied by something even more frightening...

A tear.

Sliding from behind his eye.

Uh oh.

I'm staring at that lone tear, watching it trail its way over the fine curve of his cheek, when I hear him whisper to me.

"Get me out of here, sire."

His chin is trembling with the effort to keep back the flood of tears I hear in his voice. There's only one thing I can say.

"I will."

He looks at me then, valiantly swiping at his hated tears, and I could weep at the trust I see there.

How the fuck am I supposed to get us out of here?

Ignoring that problem for the moment, I ask him if he's hungry.

"You could say that," he replies, still not looking at the blood. I make a move to get it, and he speaks again. "It's drugged."

I should have known. "Are you sure?"

What the hell kind of question is that, 'are you sure?' Of course he's sure, he's been here before. No wonder he looks so thin.

He snaps back some sarcastic retort that I deserve. I ignore it.

"When's the last time you fed?"

He tries to sound indifferent, but fails. "Two weeks, maybe more. Depends how long it was before I woke up, the first time I was down here."

Ah, now things are looking a little clearer. "The first time?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear? I'm Hostile 17."

He goes back to staring morosely at his jeans, and an idea begins to form in my mind. It's not much of one, but it's the only idea I've had since I came here and I've got to do something. Now where are they keeping that camera...

...ah, there it is. Up in the corner, outside the glass, Big Brother is watching.

Good, let the fucks watch.

"I want you to feed," I say abruptly to Spike.

He looks up with a 'you're an idiot' expression. "What? But it's drugged."

"Drugged or not, it's blood," I remind him. "And you need to eat."

He begins to protest vehemently, a small wrinkle appearing between his eyes. "But I don't need them to do something else to me! I already can't bite anyone!"

He can't... what?

I didn't know that.

No wonder he's terrified.

"Shh," I quiet him, "keep easy."

"Sod off," he mutters, staring at the ceiling.

"Spike, look at me."

Heaving a sigh, he does. I see compliance in his eyes even before I've demanded it, and it makes me happy.

"I would somehow feed you with my blood, but at least one of us needs to be at full strength." It's not an offer I ever make lightly, but he should know  
I was considering it.

When the surprise on his face shows itself, I almost laugh. Spike knows I'd never feed him my blood unless it was an emergency. 

Or a very special circumstance, like the time in Florence when...

Blinking hard, I shake myself free of the memory and bring myself back to the situation. 

Spike is practically drooling at the thought of my blood.

Too bad he won't get any.

He's going to drink that drugged shit, and I'm going to make him do it.

But first, a bit of reassurance. "I won't let them get you, childe," I murmur, leaning in close.

I mean it. I won't let them.

When he starts to giggle again, I tense, thinking he might do something foolish like throw himself at the glass. Instead, he reaches out for my hand and squeezes it.

Then he crawls across the floor to the drugged blood, his fangs descending as he does. Quick as a wink, he's ripped off the corner of the bag and has his teeth in it, draining the contents. Then he does the same to the second.

When it's dry, he throws it in a final act of defiance against the glass. It lands with a plop on the floor like a dead thing. Crawling to a spot in the cell that isn't easily seen by the camera, he seems to fold in on himself and stares at his knees.

Sighing, I join him.

We wait.

I watch with a heavy heart as his eyes begin to droop. He fights it at first, much like a child who insists they aren't sleepy, but eventually the drugged blood proves too much for even him.

Though glazed, Spike's blue eyes catch mine, and my heart twists at the panic I see in them. His final glance is pleading and helpless, two emotions Spike *never* exhibits.

I try to calm him. "I'm right here," I say fiercely, but too late.

He's out cold.

Easing him from where he's slumped against the hard wall, I shrug off my jacket and pillow it under his head. Then I stand watch over my sleeping childe, and wait.

They will come, and when they do, I'll protect my own.

I don't wait long.

The same female voice that spoke earlier comes again over the hidden intercom. "Hello, Hostile 36."

Now I'm a Hostile, too, it seems. Well, it fits.

I feel pretty damn fucking hostile.

I don't bother replying, instead moving instinctively closer to Spike.

When the voice comes again, I think I detect amusement. "You didn't eat your dinner."

"That's not dinner," I spit before I think better of it. "That's garbage."

"You let your... friend drink it."

The rage that had momentarily quieted flares anew. "He hasn't eaten in weeks!" I shout at the faceless voice. "He's starving!"

"Yes, well, you'll forgive us for not being sympathetic to the eating habits of demons."

And then all at once a glass panel slides noiselessly to the side, and more of those damn annoying soldier boys with their damn annoying high-powered rifles are filing into the room.

They're out of their minds if they think I'm leaving this cell with them. If they think for one second that I'm letting them take me out of here...

Wait, what the hell...?

I'm surrounded by a sea of black vests and the muzzles of shiny rifles. But they aren't dragging me anywhere, they just seem to be watching me over the barrels of their dicks.

I mean rifles.

A small movement in the corner catches my attention. I would have missed it altogether, which is obviously what they were hoping for, but the flash of blond hair is what catches my eye.

Realization dawns. *I'm* not the one they're taking out of here.

They're taking Spike.

The tenuous hold I've had over my own control finally snaps. With a roar of rage that even sounds loud to me, I almost manage to break through the circle of soldiers that surrounds me.

Almost.

They were ready for me, though, and one of them whaps the side of his gun against my temple.

I bite back a yelp of pain -- no good letting commando bastards know they hurt me -- and immediately spin to the other side of the tight circle to try and break through again.

I can see over their flak-vested shoulders that two of them have Spike. He hangs limply between them, one soldier holding his ankles and the other with a firm grip under his arms.

They're almost out of the room.

I promised I would watch him.

I promised I would.

I promised.

I --

\-- lunge at the nearest neck in my paniic to get to Spike.

Oh, bad mistake, Angel.

Baaaaaaad mistake.

I'm becoming awfully familiar with the butt of these rifles, as one of them slams my jaw shut and I clamp down with sharp fangs on my own tongue.

Then another one clips me upside the head again, and the white cell starts to spin. I sink slowly to the floor, watching helplessly as the commandos look down from above.

When I wake up, I'm alone.  
Spike is gone.

**Part Four**

I know before I open my eyes that the wanker didn't keep his promise. There were no growls or cries from the other cells. There were no brooding sighs from my sire. All I could hear was the hum of electricity.

Shit.

I open my eyes and sit up slowly. I wipe the drool from my chin as I look around. I'm alone in a cell, complete with three white walls and one glass wall. There is a metal chair and a television set sitting in the center of the cell. Outside the glass wall, two lab coats are sitting at a table, watching me.

The television goes on and an image appears on the screen. I recognize Angel's bent head instantly. He's sitting on the floor of a cell, exactly as I remember him before I conked out.

A secondary drug, aside from the sleep agent, must have been put into the blood, because I'm feeling quite muddled. I can't seem to work up the energy to be angry with the soulful sod for breaking is promise.

My limbs feel heavy as I climb to my feet. I send a half-hearted glare at the tossers beyond the glass. I manage to make it to the chair, and collapse down onto it.

"Hostile 17," a male, somewhat static-y voice says. One of the lab coats, I presume. "How do you feel?"

"Like killing everyone." My speech sounds strange to my ears, like my mouth is filled with marbles.

"How do you *physically* feel?" the lab coat clarifies.

"Slow. Weak," I answer, unable to stop myself. In a second, I realize the fucks have given me some sort of tongue-loosener. I panic, but it's like a blanket has been thrown over the feeling.

I'm so buggered.

"What's your name?"

"Ssspike," I slur. Oh hell, I feel strange.

"Is that your real name?"

"Huh-uh," I shake my head slowly from side to side, "'S'Will."

"Are you a vampire?"

"Yep," I pop the 'p' when I reply. This is bloody whacked.

"How old are you?"

"Hunded an' twenty-thex." My head lolls forward and I jerk it back up again.

"One twenty-six?" the lab coat repeats.

"Yep." There goes that popping 'p' again.

"And do you know who the vampire on the screen is?"

I blink several times because my eyes don't want to focus, and I look at the television. "'S'Angel."

"Angel?"

"Yep."

"How old is he?"

"Two hunded somethin'."

"And how do you know him?"

"'S'me sire."

My head falls back and I look blankly up at the white ceiling. The world begins to spin. Ugh. I'm going to heave.

"Angel is your sire?" Lab coat asks.

"'S'what I said."

"What is a 'sire'?"

I roll my head to the side and stare out the glass at the two sitting at the table. "Everything."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement on the television. I lift my head, and see Angel jump to his feet on the screen. His untucked shirt rises up briefly, exposing his slightly rounded stomach.

Ah, that little Buddha belly. Cor, how I loved that soft bit of flesh. I used to spend hours nibbling and kissing him there, listening to him sigh and murmur in pleasure. Once, in Florence, on one of the most special nights of my unlife, he'd allowed me to bite him there, right on that gentle swell. When my fangs had broken his pale skin, he'd groaned loudly and said--

"Hostile 17, define how a sire is 'everything,'" the lab coat’s interrupted, brining my memories to a screeching halt.

My eyes focused once again on the television, watching as Angel conversed angrily with someone I couldn't see. "It means he's my all," I reply, the words falling from my lips without pause because of the drug. "Father, teacher, brother, friend, protector, love, lover, enemy, creator, blood... fuck, sometimes I miss him so bloody much."

I lurch to my feet and stumble forward. I latch onto either side of the television and stare at the distorted picture Angel makes when I get close to the screen. Anger bubbles up in me, but not for my captors.

"Why did you have to go away, you soddin' prick?!" I suddenly yell the projection of Angel. "I woulda loved you even with your effin' soul, but you didn't gimme a chance! You juss poofed, you poof!"

The world spins rapidly and I lose my balance. I fall hard on my bum, almost causing the television to crash down over me. It wobbles precariously for a moment before it settles back on its stand.

"Stupid bloody prick," I mutter. "'S'too late now. I hate your fucking guts. You leff me, and you took my Dru, and then you went and shagged to bloody Slayer of all cunts."

I lay down on my side and curl my knees to my chest. "Soddin' nonce," I grumble as my vision goes blurry. "I shoulda staked you when I had the chance. Yeah. Staked you with my cock til you begged my forgiveness for leaving."

The world stops spinning and starts to go dark. I can tell that any second now I'm going to be unconscious. Swell. 

I hope I don't drool on myself again.

 

*****

Ouch.

I have a mother of a headache.

I concentrate on the lovely pain, I try to become one with the insistent throbbing on the side of my head, because then maybe I can just pass out again and forget all about the fact that they took Spike right out from under my nose.

I can't do that, though. I can't pass out, much as I'd like to just sink back down onto the floor and lie with my cheek against the cool tile. Already I feel the pain subside, and I know that in another couple of minutes it will be completely gone and I'll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed once more.

Bushy-tailed?

What the hell kind of saying is that? I always think of squirrels.

Shaking my head carefully, I keep my back to the wall and try to use it for leverage to get up. It doesn't help. My body decides it isn't ready to leave the nice comfortable floor.

That is, until I see a glimpse of a white lab coat and hear the tinny sound of the intercom. I manage to get up from the ground without teetering like a baby who's learning to walk.

Go me. The big scary vamp can stand on his own.

"Hostile 36," comes that same female voice, with that same damn faint sound of amusement.

Better not say anything.

Don't say anything, Angel, don't talk to them..."Where's Spike?" I snap, then curse myself. Like they'd tell me.

"Spike?" the female questions. "Would that be the name of Hostile 17?"

Damn.

"No," I say sullenly, knowing that they've already learned his name and are just playing with me.

"Do you have a relationship with Hostile 17?"

For a second I wonder how the hell they could have known that. Pieces of memory flash through my mind; long, dark nights of pleasure and pain and pleasure again, nights when William belonged to me and we had all of Europe in the palms of our bloodstained hands.

How do they *know* that?

Then I realize that of course they don't mean that, they just mean in what context do I know Spike. And I'm also smart enough to realize that they aren't going to ask me any questions that they don't already have the answers to.

Which means, of course, that Spike is at this moment being subjected to I-don't-know-what, while I sit here on my ass, helpless.

I am so angry at myself.

Why, *why* did I let him drink that blood? What the hell made me think that I could protect him in here?

Because you've always protected him, my demon chuckles. You've always gotten Will out of nasty predicaments. And now look at you...being kept in a cage like a little pet.

"What do you want?" I say tiredly. "What do you want for Spike?"

"You mean, what do we want in order to return Hostile 17 to your care?"

My *care*? Were we that obvious?

No. This is all information that they must have already pried from Spike.

"Yes, yes!" I'm annoyed now, and gesture at the air with one arm. "I'll do whatever you want."

I'll *what*? Where did that come from? I won't do shit for Spike. I'll sit here and rot and be pissed off the entire time.

"Whatever you want," I repeat slowly, looking at the reflection of the white coat in the glass.

Damn it.

~*~*~*~*~*

"Dr. Walsh, this is Dr. Skansen."

"Go ahead."

"I believe we have the information we need."

"You've discovered the link between the two?"

"Yes."

"And of what nature is this link?"

"Well... it's made up of a number of different ingredients, Doctor."

"Tell me."

"It seems that 17 has been... created... by 36."

"Created."

"Yes. Blood of blood."

"Continue."

"The nature of their relationship seems to be more complicated than we first estimated."

"How so?"

"Well... it seems that 17 is bonded to 36 by several different things. They share the same blood in their veins, but that doesn't even scratch the surface of their tie to one another. Their relationship is also of a sexual nature, which seems odd, considering that they are much like father and son.  
Rather incestuous."

"These are vampires, Doctor Skansen. Demons. Everything about them is odd. What else?"

"That's what we've garnered so far. And one more thing."  
"Yes?"

"It seems both parties are willing to do whatever they have to for the other."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Thank you."

~*~*~*~*~*

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have because suddenly I'm jerked awake by the glass panel of my cell sliding open.

In steps a blonde woman with a shrewd gaze. She rakes me with it and I feel utterly exposed. "Hostile 36," she barks. "You're to come with me."

"No thanks," I say, yawning and showing my teeth just a little.

She isn't impressed. "You're to come with me if you wish to see your demon friend. If not, we'll just knock you out again and take you anyway."

Well, that's no lie. They've already conked me on the head twice, I have no doubt they're being easy on me.

And she did say I could see Spike, who I'm sure by now is either seething mad at me or dead.

I hope he's dead.

Seething mad I don't think I can take. Then I would feel more disgusting and low than I already do. I deserve it, this I'm sure of, for making him drink that blood and telling him I'd look out for him --

"Hostile 36!" the female yaps at me again, and I blink. She looks annoyed at my lack of interest in her. "You are to come with me either by choice or by force. Decide now."

I put on my best silky voice and sidle up to her, smirking inside when she flinches slightly. "Anything I do is always by choice," I murmur. "Remember that." And then I saunter slowly out the open panel, knowing that I'm being heavily guarded on all sides.

After a moment, the woman follows and brushes past me, clutching her clipboard like a lifeline. "Take him to the observation room," she snaps at one of the soldier boys in the hallway, and he salutes her. 

I roll my eyes.

The observation room turns out to be simply another white-walled cell, only larger. There is also an upper deck, far above my head, where people can sit and watch whatever procedure is being carried out in the room. The deck is empty. For now.  
I turn and look at my captor, who has arrived ahead of us in the room and seems to be furiously scribbling some notes on her trusty clipboard.

I don't know when I came to think of this one woman as my captor, but she just kind of radiates the power and authority that the others don't have.

"Spike," I say shortly. "Where is he?"

"He'll be along," she says vaguely, raising her eyes to the observation deck.

Bitch.

When she reaches up to snap on a small monitor, Spike's image flickers grayly onto the screen. I tense.

He's in a wheelchair. I think. I can't tell for sure, the little screen is so grainy. But what I can see is the intravenous line running from his right arm to the heavy bag of blood at his side.

Draining, or filling?

I dart a glance at the woman, who of course seems very pleased with herself.  
"The blood is entering his body as we speak," she announces.

God, I want to kill her. I want to just rip open that white throat and --

"It's drugged, naturally," she says. "Very heavily. If the entire bag enters his system, he will die. There's enough holy water in that blood to slowly burn him from the inside out. It's going in methodically enough that he doesn't feel it, but when the level of holy water begins to outweigh the level of blood in his body --"

"All right!" I shout, infuriated. "I got it! You want something from us! Just tell me what it is and leave him be!"

She narrows her eyes as if gauging my response to her, and I realize that's exactly what she's doing. She wanted a certain reaction from me, and I think I just gave it to her.

Fuck.

"Hostile 17 is your... childe?"

"*Spike* is my childe, yes."

"Your relationship is of a sexual nature?"

What the hell is she getting at? "Yes, among other things."

She smiles. "We'll talk about those *other* things later. Right now I'm only interested in the physical aspect."

What is she, sick? "Why?"

"This is a learning facility, Hostile 36. We capture demons in order to gain information about them. You and your childe are the first demons to ever acknowledge a relationship with the other that revolves around something more than mutual killing. We are interested in that relationship and wish to study it."

"How do you think you're going to study our... relationship?" I ask her, feeling more uneasy by the second.

"Very easily," she shrugged. "We will observe the two of you coupling."

I stare at her. "You're disgusting."

She stares back, and her blue gaze is cold and unreadable. "*You're* the demon."

"I won't. I won't have sex with him so you can take notes on us." I shake my head from side to side, adamant. That's just going too far.

"Won't you, Hostile 36?" She seems unconcerned, and takes a small black box from her pocket. Pressing a button on the side, she holds it up to her mouth.  
"Increase the drip," she says to an unseen listener, and then puts the thing away again.

Incredibly, she turns and smiles at me. "Why don't you think on it for a bit?" she asks pleasantly.

I stare at the monitor. Spike's chin is resting on his chest and I can't see his face, but when a lab coat enters the room he's in and adjusts something on the bag of blood, I can see Spike's arm begin to twitch. Then his leg does the same thing, and I watch in horror as his fingers begin to curl in on themselves and his head slumps to the side.

"No...," I breathe. "You're killing him."

"Yes," the woman agrees. "We are. Would you like to rethink your decision?"

"All right," I say instantly, turning away from the painful sight of Spike. I lift my gaze to the woman's face, gratified when she looks away. "I'll do it."

The black box appears again. "Stop the drip. Bring Hostile 17 to the observation room. Oh... have a regulation cot brought in as well."

Moving as far away from her as I can, I retreat to the opposite end of the room and face the wall. I have to swallow back the bile that burns my throat.  
I feel ill.

What did I just agree to?

**Part Five**

The thick, cloying stench of blood and death fills the small steam room. Corpses are shoved up against the walls, some with their throats torn out, others with their heads twisted at funny angles, but all with gaping holes in their bodies.

In the center of the floor is a pile of intestines and organs, still warm. Flies buzz hungrily around the room. Blood coats the walls and the floors, staining the wood and my clothing.

My sire's going to kill me.

I wipe my bloody hands on my ruined dress clothes. Dress clothes that my sire had specifically picked out to come to this soddin' gentleman's club. Dress clothes that he'd told me not to get a speck of dirt on, lest he tan the skin right off my bum.

Oops.

Oh well, it's his bloody fault. He's the one who sat me in a corner and expected me to behave while he toddled off to drink scotch, smoke cigars and play poker. Sheah, right, like I was going to sit there like an effin' six-year-old on a trip with his daddy.

All right, I admit that I sat there for over an hour, waiting for the stupid toff to invite me to play. I'd gotten pretty good at cards, mainly because my sire and I would play strip poker. Do you know how frickin' satisfying it is to be sitting there fully clothed while the man who is superior to you in every way is stark naked?

I'm getting hard just thinking about it.

I brush my dirty hair away from my face and eye the pile of guts in the center of the room. After this little stunt, I'm going to be lucky if I can walk after a month. Maybe two.

But, come on, I'm bored, and there's a spongy mountain of innards calling to me. I've wanted to try this ever since my sire took me and Dru out to the country last autumn. The tots had looked like they were having a ball.

I dart forward, leap high into the air, and land in the bloody, sopping organ pile. Squish! Splurt! I skid on my knees on the blood-slicked wood floor until I'm stopped by a corpse. I think it's Mr. Pliske, but half of his face is missing so it's hard to tell.

Laughing, I fall back onto Mr. Pliske's lap. There's a nice tear where his stomach had been, and I shove my fist into the hole. I pull it out and start to lick off my blood-covered hand. I close my eyes. Still warm. Yum.

"Spike."

Oh shit, here he comes.

"Spike."

Well, best make the most of my upcoming whipping. I keep my eyes closed and play dead. Of course, I'm already dead, but you get the idea.

"Spike, come on already."

I wait until I can feel his face close to mine. Even behind my closed eyelids, I can tell exactly where his head is as well as the peeved expression on his face. Sealing my fate, I reach up, snag the back of his hair, and pull his mouth down to mine.

Rule number... whatever, the ponce has so many rules it’s hard to keep count. But I know one of them is: never kiss your sire without permission.

I sink into the kiss, holding his head firmly with my blood-drenched hand. I'm undoubtedly getting his hair filthy, and for that alone I'm know I'm going to get a hundred lashes. But, fuck me, being the one in control of the kiss is worth a million lashes.

My tongue traces his lower lip, then plunges inside his surprised mouth. I don't know how long this is going to last before he grabs me by the knackers, and I want to make the most of it. I rub the tip of my tongue against the roof of his mouth and I hear him inhale quickly.

Ha, ha, made him breathe.

I reach out with my other hand, grab his lapel, and pull him partially on top of me. His familiar bulk weighs down on my chest, and I sigh happily into the kiss. I absolutely love it when he covers me with his big-arsed body, like a cool blanket. If I'm lucky, he'll want to fuck right here before dragging me home for my punishment.

His lips are cool and firm against mine. I stroke my tongue against his, not forcefully but gently. Tenderness is the key to knocking my sire off-kilter. It's almost impossible for him to be gentle when it comes to shagging because of his dominant nature as well as his size. When I try my best to seduce him with tenderness, he's always thrown for a loop and I get to be the dominant... for a few minutes, at least.

I purr a soft entreaty in the back of my throat, then I slowly release him. It's up to him to decide whether to accept my quiet offer for a fuck. I may be an idiot, but I'm not stupid. There's no way in hell I'd force myself on my sire, no matter how much I wanted him.

I open my eyes and find myself looking at the stunned features of my sire. His eyes are huge and round and reflect undisguised shock. His mouth is slightly parted, and his lips are wet and swollen, making me ache to kiss him again.

The whir of a fan startles me, and I jerk my head to the right as my instincts to check for possible danger kick in.

Abruptly, it feels like the floor has dropped out from under me.

There is no steam room.

There is no blood.

There are no corpses pushed up against the walls.

There's only white.

Holy mother of Satan!

I shove Angel off of me and I jump to my feet. I stumble a bit as the world tilts wackily, then rights itself. I look around wildly, and both anger and dread fill me.

We aren't in the gentleman's club. We aren't in London. We aren't even in the nineteenth century.

Fuck, I kissed Angel!!

I whirl to face my ensouled sire, who's sitting on a cot that is sitting in the center of the cell we're in. "You bastard," I hiss.

Angel raises his head, and he gives me a befuddled look. "What?"

"What?!" I throw my arms in the air. "You kissed me!"

He gives me a bemused smile. "Actually, I think it was the other way around."

"Sod off," I growl at him. I wipe at my lips furiously. Aargh, I had Angel-tongue in my mouth.

"Spike."

"Get ripped."

Angel chuckles. "Who would have thought one little kiss..."

My short temper snaps in an instant. I throw myself at him and tackle him back onto the cot. Straddling his waist and with a snarl, I slam my fist into his smirking gob.

Angel grabs my left wrist, and his other hand flies up and snags the back of my hair. He yanks me backwards as he sits up. It's a move he's never used before, and it catches me off-guard.

"Spike, stop," Angel whispers harshly.

"Fuck you." I try to squirm out of his grip, but he pulls my left arm up behind my back and tightens his grip on my hair. "Let go!"

"Will you hold still!" Angel holds my body tighter against his.

I try and dig my nails into his left side, but his leather coat protects him. I attempt to shove myself away from him using my legs, but only end up rubbing against him. Damn, when the fuck did he get so strong?

"Spike, if you don't stop wiggling against me, I'm going to come in my pants."

I stop moving abruptly and stare at him in shock. "What?"

Angel gives me a self-depreciating smile. "I said: if you don't stop wiggling against me, I'm going to come in my pants."

He lets go of me, but I don't move off of him. "You've got to be yanking my chain," I say.

"Spike, I haven't had sex in a couple hundred years," Angel tells me. "And tussling with the man I once screwed on a regular basis isn't helping."

"Right."

"You don't believe me."

"Kinda hard, considering it was only a century ago you were buggerin' me blind," I say.

"I'm surprised you of all people forgot about my little vacation in hell," Angel says.

Hell. Shit, I had forgotten about that. So much has happened since I had the arsebandit tortured. "Oh," I say.

Angel lightly twists the hair at the nape of my neck. "So, how would you like to be the one to fix my celibacy problem?"

*****

She left.

The tight-assed high and mighty cold queen bitch of this operation left me alone with a half-conscious Spike, who at this minute is mumbling something to himself about innards and blood and a beating.

She left me here, but she isn't gone. I refuse to look above our heads at the towering observation deck.

I don't have to look anyway. I can smell them. I can smell their eagerness and their sweat and their blood pumping quickly in anticipation.

Voyeurs, all of them.

I've sat here for the better part of an hour, trying to decide what to do, and it all comes back to the same thing. I don't have a choice. If I'm going to make good on my promise to Spike, my promise to get him out of here, there's no way around the inevitable.

We have to...I don't even know what to call it. We have to couple? We have to copulate? We have to fuck?

We have to make love?  
I snort. That last one makes me want to retch. If there's anything we *don't* do, it's make love.

In any case, we have to put on some sort of show if we expect to get out of here. But Spike's so out of it, I'm not sure I can even get him to open his eyes. I've called his name twice already, but he's ignor --

Mmmph! What the fuck is he doing?

He's *kissing* me?! What the hell for? I keep my eyes open and stare at him while he does it, even though he's sneaking that cool, talented tongue into my mouth and doing things with it that make me want to punch him and purr at the same time.

He's got to be completely whacked. I swear upon Buffy's golden head that Spike would *never* make an advance on me while sober. In this century, at least.

And yet...and yet, he's doing it, he's touching his tongue to my mouth while keeping a firm grip on the back of my head, and I can hear him making little satisfied rumblings in the back of his throat. Then he pulls away and stares at me with fathomless eyes.

I can only stare back, speechless. They must have put something in that fucked-up blood. A happy pill, or something. He's looking at me all expectantly, and it triggers an old memory. A memory of dark days and even darker nights together, nights where we wore not a stitch of clothing and never bothered even getting out of bed at all...

The click and hum of a generator fan nearby suddenly startles him and he snaps his head around. When he looks back at me, his eyes are clear and lucid, and I understand all at once that he, too, had been lost in a memory.

A memory that he wanted to make real, for a minute at least.  
He pushes against my chest and leaps off of the cot into the center of the room as if he's been burned. Whirling to face me, he has such a look of pure rage on his face that I'm momentarily taken aback. "You bastard," he hisses.

Me? "What?"

"You kissed me," he growls, and I shouldn't smile, but it creeps out anyway.  
He gets even more pissed off.

"Actually, I think it was the other way around."

"Sod off," he snarls, wiping my taste away with his hand.

When I start to laugh at him, it's the last straw, and he unexpectedly launches all one hundred and forty pounds of himself at me. He lands on top of me and gets in one good punch before I can effectively trap his hands.

This just won't do either of us any good at all, and it's giving the onlookers one hell of a show.

"Spike, stop."

"Fuck you."

Soon enough, I think, and tighten my grip. "Will you hold still!" 

He's *got* to hold still, because I'm ashamed to admit even to myself that he's made me hard as steel with all his wiggling around up there. I'm surprised he hasn't felt it already.

Oh, wait, scratch that. His scarred eyebrow suddenly arches, and he glances down between us. When he looks back up, he's very suspicious.

"If you don't stop wiggling against me, I'm going to come in my pants." Jesus, did I really say that to him? Well, at least he stops fidgeting. And it was true. He was rubbing against the seam of my pants in exactly the right way.

"You're yanking my chain."

Ahh, that's my boy, always has to argue.

I remind him lightly that it's been a very long time since I've had sex, and one time with Buffy two years ago did nothing for relieving any kind of tension. There was that little foray into Hell in between, anyway. That added a few hundred years to the calendar. 

Born-again virgin, that's me.

He still looks dubious. But thoughtful. I hope it isn't hurting his brain, all this thinking.

This is a lame idea, but the best I can come up with. It seems I can't come up with any decent ideas in here. Knowing that Spike would never agree to having sex while the lab coats were about, I've got to keep his attention away from them.

We have to do this, or we die.

Keeping my fingers entwined in the short hair at the back of his skull, I tug him a little closer. "How'd you like to be the one to fix my celibacy problem?" 

God. I sound so stilted. He'll never go for it, not in a million --

"Sure thing, Peaches."

Startled, I look at him. Hearing the old insult-slash-endearment cross his lips is kind of a jolt.

"Unless," he drawls, "you were kidding."

Ah, now I understand. I didn't think he would have been so receptive, except for the fact that he thinks I'm bluffing. Is that a challenge? Is he *challenging* me?

"I'm not kidding," I say.  
His blue gaze travels around the room we're in, and I hold my proverbial breath that he doesn't look up. When his eyes come back to rest on me, it's a relief. "What's got into you?" he questions.

"Hopefully, you."

He grins then, a whole lighting up of his handsome face. His cheekbones are stark and angular against his smile. It serves to remind me of what I knew a hundred years ago and what I've forgotten in between then and now, but know with certainty I won't forget again. 

He's my favorite childe.

Drusilla and Penn were pathetic attempts at creating the perfect childe. I knew it then and I know it now, and neither lived up to my expectations of them. That's because I expected them both turn out to be like Spike, and when they failed me, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

But then came William.

Who at this point is starting to narrow his eyes and look sullen again because he's asked me a question and I haven't answered. I ask him to repeat it.

He flares his nostrils and is annoyed. "I said, what makes you think I'll shag you? This ain't exactly a bed of roses here."

I bounce up and down on the regulation cot. "As I recall," I say slowly, "you used to not give a damn where I took you, boy. On the floor, against the wall, in the public baths...you didn't care, Will. Just as long as I took you."

His eyes are riveted to mine and he darts his tongue out to wet his full bottom lip. I can see his even white teeth nibbling on it. His expression is full of memories. I've almost got him convinced, I can tell. 

What I say next goes against the better nature of my damned soul, but I've got to persuade him, and this is all I can think of under pressure.

"Remember the blood, Will? Remember all the lovely warm blood that just poured out of the bodies? There was the night we emptied it into the bathtub and bathed in it for hours." 

Keep it up, Angel, you've almost got him...

"And then I let you fuck me right in the middle of all that blood, didn't I, William? Right in the middle of all that steamy, hot, human blood. And then..." I lower my voice and he leans forward, mesmerized. "And then, you bit me when you came and I let you drink."

Success.

With an expelled breath that I'm sure he didn't even know he was holding, Spike throws his weight against me again and brings us both down to the cot. He's straddling me with that lean, hard body that I haven't felt on top of me in a hundred years, and may lightning strike me dead --again-- if it doesn't feel fucking good.  
He leans in to kiss me, and it's a hard and hungry kiss that's laced with desperation. What he's desperate for I'm not sure, but my protective instincts are kicking in once again and all I want to do is cover him up and shield him from the prying eyes above.

I can't do that without raising his suspicion, so I settle for kissing him back, offering him a tiny bit of fang in the kiss as he grips the cot on either side of my head. He cuts his tongue on my teeth and lets the blood mingle between us, his own fangs lengthening as he grinds his mouth down on mine.

His legs widen slightly, bringing his pelvis into closer contact with mine, and he starts to rock against me. God, was his cock always this hard? Has it been so long that I didn't remember how big he was, how thick he feels even through his jeans? No wonder I turned him.

Impatient as always, I can feel him fiddling with my belt. He manages to get it unbuckled without unlocking his lips from mine, and I lift my hips to help him because already he's got the fly unzipped and is tugging them down around my thighs. I hear a growl of appreciation and I assume it's due to the fact that I'm not wearing shorts.

I wonder if he even remembers he instilled that habit in me, so long ago...

And then, ooooooooh, I can hear myself grunt as suddenly my dick is in his hand and he's started a wicked rhythm of stroking and squeezing.

When did this veer into the court of *his* control, and not mine? Why am I all of a sudden lying here on this regulation cot without even a blanket or a pillow and with at least five observers above us, sprawled out with my shirt still buttoned but no pants, letting my childe stroke me and groaning like a bitch in heat?

Wait, cancel that. My shirt is now unbuttoned. Torn, to be correct. Spike just flings it off the bed.

And what alarms me even further is the fact that he looks so intense as his blue eyes burn into mine. 

God, please tell me he isn't having *feelings*.

I close my eyes so I don't have to see him, so I don't have to cringe from the hopeful look he has but tries to hide. This cannot be about us. This has to be about doing whatever necessary to survive, even if he's unaware.

I refuse to renew a relationship with my childe under these circumstances.

So I let him kiss me while I strip him of his jeans. He starts to shrug off his duster but some small decent part of me wants him to keep it on, giving us a flimsy shield from the eager eyes above. He doesn't argue. For once.

If he's thinking this is going to be some long, drawn-out happy sexual reunion, he's badly mistaken. For one thing, there's no fucking way I'm going through the whole foreplay ordeal just so the lab coats will be happy. Screw them. And for another...

Well, for another thing, I haven't had sex in a few millennia and I think I'm about to explode.  
Especially when Spike stretches out all cool and hard and naked above me, the lean muscles in his legs resting atop mine, and his cock pressing into the springy hair of my crotch. Then he's sliding down just a little, just enough so his dick falls between my open legs and the soft head pokes at my entrance.

I can't help it, I open my eyes and look at him. I should not be letting him fuck me. It should be the other way around, except I know that if I get anywhere near his tight hole, it's all over. I'd come in five seconds.

I'm still too vain for the assholes above us to think I'm as randy as a kid. Which I am. But Jesus, Spike's learned a thing or two about screwing in the past hundred years and since his hand has once again closed around my cock, I just arch my back and strain forward into his touch.

And then he's gone again, and his blond head appears between my legs and I can't help but grin because I think he's going to blow me. Good. It shows he remembers his place as the subservient one -- ooooooooohhh, that's *not* where I expect him to put his mouth...

He licks my opening with that amazingly talented tongue and I understand that he's using his saliva for lube, since we seem to be lacking some at the moment. 

*****

We're going to die.

I knew it the moment Angel started trying to convince me to have sex with him. I mean, come on, we *hate* each other. There's no way in hell he'd shag me just for kicks.

And there's no way in hell I'm going to pass up the chance to fuck my sire before I die. But it's going to be *me* fucking *him.* I think I deserve it after all the shit he's put me through.

I kiss him hard. Our teeth grind together, and blood mingles between our mouths from when I cut my tongue on the edge of his fang. Fuck, but if this doesn't feel good. It's been so effin' long.

I get most of his clothes off with ease. His cold, hard body is lying under mine, and I can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he takes unnecessary, ragged breaths. His cock feels familiar in my grip, and it sends me spiraling briefly back to a time when I would spend days worshiping his naked form. I knew exactly where to touch him and how much pressure it would take to make him groan.

Then, it hits me.

This is possibly the last time I'll touch him.

Ever.

I look at Angel intently, wondering if he realizes this little fact, too. I know that we hate each other, but once, a long time ago, that hate didn't exist. In fact, neither of us believed we'd ever be anything but sire and childe, friends and lovers, companions for eternity.

Ha.  
He closes his eyes, and for a second I feel as though I've been punched in the gut. I shake the odd feeling off. I don't want this to be a pity shag, or even a chance to relive the past. I'm going to fuck my sire until he understands that *I* am the one in control... and he submits to me.

If I'm going to die, I'm going to literally go out on top.

I surge up and over him, and his eyes widen in shock. I'm sure my eyes are fucking saucers, because he's soooo bloody tight. We stare at each other, unmoving, his left knee hooked in my elbow and my duster acting like a blanket.

Sweet fucking heaven. Angel moves first, and I swear I'm already going to pop. And all he did was bring his other leg up under my coat and over my hip.

Holy hell, I'm fucked. This is going to be the quickest shag in recorded history.

"Spike." Angel's voice is low and rough.

My cock throbs in response. I groan.

He repeats my groan, then snags the back of my hair and pulls my mouth down to meet his. We kiss passionately and hungrily and whatever else -ily until I can't even remember my name.

Then, I move.

They won't have to kill us. I think I'm going to die on my own, right now.

*****

Ohhhhhh, my fucking God, this little interlude is about to be embarrassingly over because I'm going to blow.

Spike is *so* hard, it feels like he's got a damn iron rod shoved up me, and when I shift slightly and clench around him, he rolls his head back on his shoulders and hisses through his teeth.

Then he thrusts, once, and that's why I think I'm done for, because I can feel the buildup in my balls and my face shifts without my permission, and yessssss, this is so good...

"Ouch!" My eyes pop open and I yelp. Glancing down, I can see that Spike's got the tip of my dick between his fingers and is pinching it. He still has that same serious look on his face and that worries me, but what concerns me even more is the fact that he's putting enough pressure on my erection to successfully deflate it. I let out a warning growl and try to wrench away, and he lets go.

"Don't come yet," comes the seductive purr from my boy, his blue eyes glinting.

Full mast again, instantly. Good to know my cock's got his own mind. "I wasn't," I lie, and he chuckles.

"You forget, *Angel*," he says in that same low voice, putting emphasis on my name, "how thoroughly I know you. I know when you're about to come."  
He punctuates his statement with a thorough thrust into me, and I groan unwillingly. "Oh, really? And how do you know?"

My cock is slipping through his nimble fingers again as he begins to tell me, and the combination of his words and his actions are heady. "You start to clutch things. The bedsheets, clothes...me."

It's true. I'm doing it right now, gripping the mattress with one hand while clenching and unclenching my fist in his hair. "What else?" I manage to grate out, feeling my hips rise off the bed to meet his next downward motion. Jesus  
Christ, if he doesn't get his fucking hand off my nuts I'm going to spill.

Spike leans in close, the yellow showing through his blue eyes and turning them an odd shade of green. "You pant."

"I do not do that."

"Sure ya do, mate. Like now."

True again, fuck it all. I haven't breathed air in over two hundred years and I'm gasping like a fish out of water. When in the last fucking two centuries did he get to know me so well?  
It's...disturbing.

And I'd ponder it further, and probably brood over it a little, if I didn't know for sure that I'm really about to come this time and there's no stopping it. If he pinches my dick again I'll drain him dry.

Seems he's not in the playful mood anymore, though, because he hunkers down and gets to business, praise Jesus. With a strong push, he buries himself to the hilt in me and begins quick, fast thrusts that start him to grunting and me to just lie there like a whore with my legs open.

That cool hand of his is still pumping me, sliding all the way down to the base and then back up to circle the head in the exact way he knows I like, using his thumb to brush the mushroom tip and wipe away the crystal fluid that pools there.

I feel myself climbing, climbing, the peak of my climax just out of reach, and I wrap one arm around his neck and bring his face down into the hollow of my shoulder while I scrape his tight ass with my fingernails. After a second he strains to look at me so I release my hold.

Yellow eyes glowing, he rasps, "*Now* you can come."

And that does it, damn him, my semen practically gushes from me in a stream and I jerk helplessly against his hand, groaning against his neck and wanting to bite him so badly that it's painful.

A small warning voice in my head reminds me why we're here, why we're doing what we're doing, and biting him would be the ultimate embarrassment for us both. It would show the Initiative exactly what our relationship consists of, sire and childe, and there's no way that they're ever going to know the extent of it.

So I don't bite him, though by the tensing of his shoulders and his neck as he comes, I can tell he's expecting it. Wanting it. Offering it.

Not this time, childe o' mine.

I'm just limp under him. Spent, though this was definitely not one of our more vigorous go-rounds. The pressure's gotten to me, finally.

He's heavy weight on top of me for a little while, then he heaves himself off to lay beside me. I can tell he wants to say something, and I close my eyes.  
Please, God, don't let him be all emotional. When he finally speaks, it's not what I expect.

"What the fuck is *that*?!"

My eyes fly open and I jerk my head to the side to see him lying on his back, staring at the five people in white lab coats high above us.

Damn it all to hell.

*****

He. Is. So. Fucking. Tight.

I clench my teeth and force back the orgasm that's already upon me. If I come, it's over. I won't get a second chance to dominate my sire. Not if we're dead.

I won't get a chance to dominate the tosser if *he* comes now, either. And I can tell by the way he's clenching my hair and panting like a bitch in heat that he's about to burst.

Huh-uh, Angel. Not yet. *I'm* in control here.

I shift, reach between us, and pinch the head of his cock, hard. Pained shock flashes across his ridged features. "Ouch!" he yelps.

The look he gives me could melt glass, but I stare him down. I continue to pinch him until he growls and starts to struggle against me, then I let go. I can tell he's about to scold me like I'm some naughty little fledgling.  
Well, guess what, sire? I'm not a fledge anymore.

I'm not a naive childe.

I'm a *Master* *Fucking* *Vampire.*

And *I'M* *IN* *CONTROL!*

"Don't come yet," I tell him in the same voice I use to seduce my prey.

He's rock hard again in an instant. "I wasn't."  
I chuckle. Who does he think he's lying to?

"You forget, *Angel,*" I say, emphasizing his chosen name in reflection of his currently submissive status, "how thoroughly I know you. I know when you're about to come."

I move my hips until I nearly pull out of him, then I thrust forward hard. He groans. Sweet.

"Oh, really?" he questions through his fangs. "And how do you know?"

How the hell does he think I know? I spent a quarter of my unlife in bed with him. I grip his thick cock in a soft fist and begin to pump. His fingers clench and unclench my hair, just like I knew they would. "You start to clutch things," I answer. "The bedsheets, clothes... me."

I pull my hips back and drive into him again. He raises up to meet my thrust and his inner muscles clench me, too. See, you clutch things, I think smugly.

"What else?" Angel's voice is scratchy and he's staring at me with a challenging glint in his gold eyes.

He dares to challenge me? I lean close -- my own face still smooth, showing my control -- and tell him with an almost flippant tone, "You pant."

"I do not do that," he says defensively.

Right. Uh-huh. Yeah. Pull the other one.

I continue to meet his defiant 'I am *not* panting' stare until his gaze slides away from me. For a moment, I think: ha! Got you, shirtlifter!

Then I realize he's just submitted to me.

Angel has submitted *to me.*

He turned his eyes away first. He surrendered his challenge. He submitted to me!

Smack! I slam my pelvis up against his ass and feel his channel spasm around my prick. With quick, short stabs, I start to fuck him how *I* want to fuck him, because *he* submitted to *me.*

A mantra runs round and round my brain, punctuating each of my thrusts. I'm in control... I'm in control... I'm in control... I'm in control...

My hand works his cock in a steady rhythm and I can hear the pleasured growls he's making in the back of his throat. He pulls me close to him and his body writhes against mine, seeking more. The burning starts in my lower belly, telling me I'm going to explode very soon.

I strain against Angel's hold on my neck and he lets go. I raise my head to look at him and, with a showing of dominance that he cannot misunderstand, I give him permission to come.

He instantly climaxes, his hips jerking against me as gobs and gobs of semen spurts from his dick. His inner muscles squeeze my cock so tightly my eyes cross. Harder and harder, I ram myself up his hole as he presses his ridged face into my neck and groans.

I feel the light scrape of his fangs against my skin and the small sting shoots right to my groin. Oh fuck, sire, bite me, I beg in my mind. My mantra changes as the fire spreads throughout my body. Bite me... bite me... bite me... bite me...

He doesn't, but I still come.

I shudder hard as I blow my wad deep inside my sire's ass. The world fades away in a hazy greyness for a moment or three. I'm the one panting now, trying to catch the breath my body forgets I don't need.

I eventually lift my head from where it'd fallen on his shoulder, and meet his dark gaze. Why didn't you bite me? I wonder. You always bit me when we shagged. In fact, you could never stop yourself from biting me when we shagged, even if it was just a toothy little nip. You told me once that biting me when we were being intimate reaffirmed our bond as sire and childe.

I guess our relationship truly is over.

Good, I hate you anyway.

I heave myself off of Angel, flop onto my back beside him on the cot, and immediately close my eyes. I'm suddenly tired in a way that I haven't felt since the day I realized Angelus had left and was never coming back. If the wankers holding us captive would kill me now, I think I'd be grateful.

My face smooths back into its human countenance and I open my eyes. Now that I think of it, I'd rather not die naked. I'm about to sit up when I see five white lab coats looking down at us from a platform, clipboards in hand.

Startled, I exclaim, "What the fuck is *that*?!"

Angel jerks beside me, and I instantly realize he's known they were there all along. My features twist again as I'm suddenly filled with a vampire's strongest emotion.

Pure, unfettered rage. 

**Part Six**

"Don't look!" I command him in my sharpest, most 'I-am-your-sire-do-what-I-say' voice.

He looks, naturally.

He looks, and raises a finger in a universal salute before collecting a giant wad of phlegm in the back of his throat and spitting it up toward them.

Always graceful, my boy is.

"And you!" He rounds on me, and it takes every ounce of control not to wince even slightly at the thunderous look in his eyes. "You knew!"

"Stop it," I warn him, acutely aware of the scritching of ball-points above us. I can practically feel their glee at this display of vampiric anger.

"I'm an ass!" he shouts.

This is true, however, to laugh now would surely mean my death at the hands of William the Bloody.

"I'm an ass for trusting you, Angel. I'm an ass for ever going to find you in the first place. What, are you in good with them?" He gestures obscenely upward again. "Was it a plan of yours to get me here? What do you get for that? They throw you a nice, warm human to drink instead of that piss-water blood you filch from the meat market? What?"

Spike was always good at giving a lovely display of anger. Some people just get quietly upset when they are wronged, some take to furtive passive-aggressiveness, some just bide their time and sulk quietly. I prefer the latter myself.

But Spike... Spike gets beautifully angry, and quite loudly, too. It must be the eternal child that resides in him, for no one, save children, seems to feel the unfairness of things quite so vividly. I have a quick mental image of a gamin face, blue eyes wide as saucers, saying, "But Mum, *why* can't I have a lolly before supper?"

Enough of this childishness for now, though. I grab his upper arm and yank him close to me, hissing, "I had nothing to do with it, you idiot. Now shut your damn mouth before the stiffnecks up there can write any more fascinating information."

To my surprise, he obeys.

In fact, I'm so surprised that I drop his arm and he elbows his way past me to the far corner of the cell, dropping down onto the floor and resting his forehead on his knees.

Nothing to do now but wait.

No, hold on. That's not true. Waiting will only mean that we aren't taking action, that we aren't doing anything to facilitate our own freedom.

And I'm sure as all hell not spending the rest of my miserable, cursed existence in here. I want to be miserable on my own terms.

Chancing a look upward tells me that the suits have seen all they want to see for now. There is a big show of putting away clipboards and reattaching their pens to their pocket protectors.

Walking over to where Spike sits muttering under his breath, I nudge him with my foot. 

He kicks out viciously without raising his head from his knees, connecting with my shin.

I deserve it, I know. And later, when we get out of here, I'll let him exact his punishment on me with painstaking detail. It could involve some bloodshed, I'm thinking...

Crouching down, out of kicking range, I tell him, "I know what we're going to do."

"Huh. I'm not listening to anything you ever say to do, ever again."

"Fine, pretend not to listen. But you better remember what I tell you, boy, because it's going to mean both of our lives." I know my voice is hard by the end of the sentence, but I don't care. I don't have time or patience to baby him right now, especially because there's no one on earth who needs *less* babying than he does. 

He needs a firm hand cupping his balls, and that's the way you control him.

Speaking rapidly, I explain. "A hostage situation is the only way, Will. There won't be opportunity for us to be together again in the same cell, we'll have to do it now, as soon as one of them comes in for us. I can't really hope it will be that Walsh woman, but one of her lapdogs will have to do. Let's just hope she thinks her lapdogs are valuable. Are you listening?"

I know he is, because he shakes his head no.

"Good. The freaks up above have left, so the only other eyes on us will be the monitor and whoever's watching it from the control room. I'll have to be the one to grab her, since your chip will be activated at the first sign of danger toward a human. Then you can --" He looks up at me with dead eyes and  
I stop what I'm saying. "What?"

"How d'ya know you ain't been implanted, too?"

***** 

Defeat.

Such an ugly word, it is. It's synonymous with the weak, the worthless, the pathetic losers. A real vampire never admits defeat. We may be thwarted, or temporarily stopped, or choose to make a tactical retreat, but we're never defeated. The concept of defeat was as foreign to me as what it must feel like to be a woman.

Well, dress me up and call me Shirley, because I am utterly defeated.  
My anger vanishes as quickly as it flared. I *am* an ass for trusting him. I *am* an ass for thinking he'd help me. I *am* an ass for thinking that Angel may have some smidgen of feelings leftover from long ago.

The opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference.

The rage that I'd felt a short while ago had been buried by an avalanche of hurt. I didn't think the arsewipe could make me feel this way. He doesn't care that I'd fucked him. He doesn't care that I was in control. He doesn't care that he didn't bite me. He doesn't care that I'd wanted to rip his throat out. He doesn't care that I hate him. He doesn't care, period.  
He's indifferent.

I drop to the ground in the corner of the observation room -- although showroom's a better descriptive -- and rest my head on my bent knees. The floor is cold on my bare ass, the tails of my duster having spread when I sat. I really should get dressed again, but that would take too much effort.

Angel comes over and starts lecturing. First, we'll do this; then, we'll do this; and then, we'll do this. The Great Escape, in vivid Technicolor and Dolby Surround Sound. Steve McQueen, eat your effin' heart out. Too bad the soddin' nonce's plan may have one fatal flaw:

"How d'ya know you ain't been implanted, too?"

The poof looks startled for a moment, then a thoughtful frown replaces the look. "We'll just have to hope I'm not."

I snort. If there's one thing I don't do, it's hope. Hope has a tendency of ripping your heart out, throwing it in a blender, and hitting puree.

"Get dressed," Angel tells me, rising to do the same. His shirt is in tatters, and he throws a scowl at me before tossing it back to the floor. He cares more about his stupid clothing that he does about... about...

I dress mechanically. Up until now, I'd wanted to escape. Up until now, I'd wanted to live. Up until now...  
"Stand here," the shirtless Angel instructs, positioning me so I'm facing the metal door. The unfeeling wanker crouches in front of me, his back to the door, clasps my hips and buries his face in my crotch.

Ooookay.

"Grab the door," he mumbles against my trousers. "Whatever you do, don't let it shut."

Ah, the plan. Didn't think he wanted to give me a quick blow. My cock's not stirring, anyway, so even if he did it'd be kind of hard. Er, not hard. Stupid brain, now is not the time to pun.

I stand there stiffly, eyes on the door, waiting for it to open. I don't really care if Angel's plan succeeds or if all my skin is peeled off after we fail, I just want this to be over with.

Angel sighs and nuzzles my crotch. His hands gently squeeze my hips. I don't know what the nancyboy is thinking about, nor do I give a damn. He could be reliving that night in Florence in his mind, the most precious night of my unlife, and it still wouldn't matter to me. I'm the one who's indifferent now.

A tear slides down my cheek, and I sniff.

Stupid allergies.

I hear the electronic buzz of the lock being disengaged, and I tense even more. Don't let the door shut, I reminded myself, as it slowly swings inward.

The muzzle of a taser precedes the soldier as he starts into the room. He aims at me, rather than my sire, and I'd applaud Angel's ingenuity if I gave a shit. The soldier doesn't think Angel is a threat because of his position. Stupid, stupid soldier. Didn't they teach you anything in combat school?

Angel moves in a flash, somersaulting backwards, his feet landing a double-kick in the soldier’s groin. I duck as the taser is fired. The electric bolt whizzes over me, most likely leaving a scorch mark across my hair. Punk skunk, the new fashion statement.

I go for the door, absently noting that my sire isn't screaming in pain as he thrashes the soldier. Guess they didn't monkey with his brain. I must've gotten the privileged vamp treatment last time I was here. Lucky me.

There are more idiots in the hallway, trying to get in. Angel uses the now-unconscious soldier as a shield as they fire their shock-weapons. The body in the poof's hands shakes and sort of glows from the amount of current being pumped into him. It's actually kind of neat.

Game-faced, Angel hisses and throws glowboy at the shooters, knocking a bunch of them down. He flies out after the body, grabbing the nearest gun muzzle and yanking it from the surprised soldier's hands. Smart move, that, because the gun Angel's taken is a military issue .9 mm and will harm the human gits a lot more than the tasers.

Bam! The light fixture above one group shatters, raining glass down upon their heads. Snarl! Angel snares one of the bigger blokes and shoves the nose of the gun up under his neck. "Freeze!" someone in command shouts. "Shoot him!" the captured moron shouts back. "You do, and I blow his brains out," Angel growls.

And I stand here and hold the door open.

Go me.

A new voice in the hall, a familiar female one. "Stand down," she orders.

The soldiers do as she says, which must make her the Grand Poobah of this shithole. I wait for the feeling of 'kill, maim, destroy' to come over me.

It doesn't.

I'm simply indifferent.

I poke my head into the hall to take a look at her. Her name badge reads M. Walsh. She blond, sour-faced, and an actual adult. I'm so used to getting my arse kicked by children, maybe that's why I could care less about this bitch.

"I guess this is the part where I say: don't hurt him, and you reply: not unless I get what I want," Walsh says in a dry tone.

"No, I think I'll get right to the threats," Angel returns. He tightens his grip on the soldier. "Spike and I are leaving. Try to stop us, and I'll kill this one, followed by each and every one in this pit."  
"Don't let them leave, Professor," the captured soldier -- Finn, his name patch reads -- says.

"Ah, the brave little hero," Angel taunts, digging the gun further under the git's chin. "Don't forget, boy, I can smell your fear."

"You do understand that once you're free, we will simply hunt you down again?" Walsh points out, ignoring her pet soldier's pleading.

"I'm looking forward to it," Angel replies.

Walsh nods. "Very well, since you leave me no choice."

"Into the room," Angel orders, gesturing with his head towards me.

I move back and hold the door open wider. I'm very good at my assigned job.

Once all the soldiers and Walsh have entered, I leave, allowing the door to shut behind me. The metal door clicks as the lock engages.

Angel doesn't wait a moment. He starts down the hall, pushing Finn in front of him, the gun now pointed at the soldier's head from behind. I trudge after my sire, not paying that much attention to where we're going or who's around. It's not like I care if I escape anymore. I'm indifferent.  
My sire is talking with Finn. Threats, most likely, and promises of retribution. I wonder why Walsh chose to let us go. She has to believe that Angel will munch the boy once we're out of here. If she believes he's that expendable, why didn't she simply shoot through him?

Unless it's a trap, or maybe she knows that Angel won't kill humans. Well, we'll find out soon enough. There's the door that leads out of this place.

Nighttime, which means sunlight's not the surprise. Wouldn't that've been the bloody bugger? Daring escape thwarted by UV-rays.

"Run," Angel tells me the second we're outside. His ridged face is scrunched even further in anxiety and his eyes search the shadows. "Go, Spike. Run."

Run, Spike. Run. See Spike run? I don't think so.

"*Now*, you good for nothing little shit," Angel snarls, his golden eyes flashing. "I did not just rescue your ugly ass for you to get captured again."

Finn uses Angel's distraction with me to spin around and knock the gun from his hand. I watch for a moment as a nice, big fight ensues. A fight that I can't participate in because of whatever the soldiers did to me.

Wow, I'm brooding. I'm truly brooding. So this is what it feels like to be my ensouled sire.

A hysterical giggle erupts from my throat. I've certainly done it this time, haven't I? Dru would be even more disgusted than she was when she dumped me. The second time, not the first. Even after I'd tortured her, she'd still thought I was a wuss, which hurt worse than her simply tossing me out because I tried to woo her back.

"Damn it, William, *RUN*!" Angel yells mid-punch, his bare torso bruised and cut from the fight. His chest is heaving as the animalistic side in him makes him pant. His fangs gleam in the faint moonlight as his lips pull back in a vulpine snarl.

I run.

Not because told me to, and not because I'm afraid of being recaptured.

I run because I'm *not* indifferent.

I run because I *don't* hate him.

I run because if I didn't, I would've made a bloody fool of myself.

My sire looks gorgeous fighting in the moonlight, reminding me of the past, reminding me of how I'd felt and still feel about him.

Reminding me that I'm still in love with him.

*****

Ouch.

Soldier Boy may be big, dumb and tree-like, but apparently he's been trained in more than one form of the martial arts because he just landed a kick that would have knocked the spit out of a mortal.

Seems to me he needs to be taught a lesson, and not merely because he works for this god-awful government faction; not merely because he had a hand in capturing first Spike and then both of us; not merely because he plays lapdog to that bitch that made Spike and me fuck in front of an interested panel of suits.

He needs to be taught a lesson because he put his hands on Buffy.

There is blood trickling down my side. My eye is starting to swell from where Lapdog placed a well-timed fist. I think a rib cracked a minute ago.  
I feel fucking fantastic.

It feels marvelous to fight something real. For too long now I've been fighting phantoms. I've been swinging punches at things I can't reach: The Powers That Be, my curse, even God.

I've railed against God for most of my time on earth.

And now, I have something that reacts when I hit it. Something that grunts, that gasps, that bleeds. So I give it all I've got, no holds barred.

The child is a nothing but a heap on the grass in a matter of moments.

I steal his shirt.

And find I'm alone in the dark, because Spike has vanished.

* * *

Where to find him?

Where to find the errant childe, the lost sheep...?

Wait. Think. Feel him.

Where was he when he found me?

I remember, suddenly. It feels like eons ago that I was skulking in the shadows of the Watcher's house, alert for the danger to Buffy.

The danger to Buffy!  
And now there is panic of the worst sort, the kind of panic that sets in when you realize that not one, but two of your loved ones are in danger and you are too far away to help.

The night whispers. 

/...hurry, Angel...hurry.../

I'm hurrying. Shut up.

The cemetery ... the burned out high school ... the Summers home on Revello Drive ... and then, finally, the Watcher's house.

And what in the name of Christ Almighty is in Giles' fucking living room? Is that a ... it looks like a ...

An Indian?

I guess that's not really PC these days. I think they say "Native American" now. From what I can see of him through the window, he certainly looks... native.

And may lightning strike me down if he's not holding a hatchet.

There is no question of me throwing myself headlong into this fight. That... that... thing is threatening Buffy, and the danger is great, otherwise Doyle would have never had a vision about her.

Kick the door down, fly into the living room, try to look like Batman or The Dark Knight or whatever.

I make a distraction which would have worked beautifully for Buffy to stake it or behead it or cast a spell on it, except the enormous Native American is not the one distracted.  
Buffy turns, as do all the rest of her crew, and the look that crosses her face is one I would die to see under normal circumstances. A look that clearly says, 'Angel, I've never been gladder to see you in all my life'.

I have to ignore her.

The Indian-guy is advancing on her, whirling his tomahawk at her precious head, and there's gonna be some fightin', folks.

Why do people think that it is actually okay for them to threaten my loved ones?

And then, not less than ten minutes later, the house is Indian-free.

More ribs have been cracked, and if I had to take a deep breath, I couldn't do it because of the searing pain. He managed to take a chunk of my scalp in his meaty fist and rip out quite a bit of hair, so my head is pulsing.

Buffy is fussing over me. I want to let her.

I want to lay my head down in her lap, blood and all, and close my grainy eyes. I want her to keep making soothing noises at me and looking at me like I'm the last American hero. 

Please. I want to. I'm so tired, and my body aches.

So does my spirit.

Heaving an enormous sigh, I look around at the small gang of people that help to keep my golden girl safe. They're looking back at me with various expressions ranging from gratefulness to 'what the fuck are you doing here?' I quickly explain about Doyle and the vision, and I'm thankful that Giles doesn't spill that I've been in Sunnydale longer than I let on.

When I finish my half-lie, I'm invited to share Thanksgiving dinner with them. Well, Buffy invites me and Willow seconds the invitation. That jackass, Xander, is loudly disagreeing, and the odd girl by his side is studying me like I'm a side of beef. Angel loins, $2.99 a pound. Giles re-extends the invitation after telling Xander to shut up, but I can tell he'd rather have Spike take a mallet to his ribs.

Speaking of my wayward childe...

I feel pinpricks of guilt at my conscience. I haven't thought of the boy since I'd shown up here, skivvies outside of my tights. I look around for him.

Because, of course, they would invite the vicious killer inside without hesitation.

Shaking my head at my stupidity, I start to make my excuses in order to leave. It's then that I catch sight of Spike through the kicked-open door. He's standing outside in the courtyard, looking all the world like an orphaned beggar child wishing he was the one invited to Thanksgiving dinner. I don't think he sees me.

I could leave. Sneak out the back and let Buffy deal with Spike. Now that I know he isn't the danger, I can rest easy knowing he won't hurt her.

*Can't* hurt her.

"What are you looking at?"

I turn to Buffy at her question, the weight on my shoulders making me slump over like a little old man, and sigh. "Spike."

Buffy looks at me for a long time, and her eyes are old.

"Go help him, Angel."

It is an enormous credit to her that she does not ask me what happened, and why Spike is hovering outside like a lost puppy as we speak. 

Remind me to love this girl.

I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb over her smooth skin. She smiles softly, and that weight on my shoulders gets a little lighter. I smile back, then without a word, leave Giles's blood-spattered, but happy, home. Gotta go help my boy. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

He glares disdainfully up at the brown building where I live. "I'm not going home with you."

"You're already home with me," I point out.

"That's 'cause you put me in yer pussy car and drove me to yer pussy house. I'll sleep out here."

Brat!

"I have blood inside," I coax. Why am I coaxing? He's not a child.

Yes, he is.

"Not hungry," he sighs, and takes a long-suffering look out the window.

"Well, I am. And I'm going in," I snap, and do just that.

Let him freeze out there, who fucking cares?

I heat a mug of blood and carry it to the kitchen table, where I sit myself down and keep one eye on the elevator.

He's so predictable.

Sure enough, the lift creaks and thirty seconds later he's slamming the cage door open. "Whyja leave me out there ya big freak it's damn cold and ya dint even leave yer damn keys so I could turn the heat on and where's yer fuckin' icebox with yer fuckin' blood?"

I slide my own cup across the table to him and he snatches it, mumbling under his breath. I watch as he wanders away into the bedroom.

Don't follow. Leave him be, my conscience whispers, leave him alone, let him adjust, give him some time...

"Angel, where's the fuckin' remote for your telly!"

Enough time.

I stop in the doorway of the bedroom and grimace slightly.

He's put the mug down on my cherry-oak night-stand without benefit of a coaster. His disgustingly filthy shoes have been kicked off and discarded in the middle of the floor. He's pulled his dirty t-shirt over his head and flung it over my antique hat rack, and he now stands bare-chested in front of my small television, cursing it.

He's very thin.

I feel faint stirrings of desire.

What? No, I don't. I don't want him.

He turns and looks me up and down. "What're you staring at, ducks?"

*****  
I know I'm acting like a bloody girl, stomping around and bitching because I'm upset, but I can't help it. I saw the way Angel had looked at Buffy through the open door of the Watcher's house. It made me wish that someone would look at me like that again.

But Dru's off shaggin' the mucus demon of the month; and my sire doesn't love me anymore.

Sure, I'm here in his flat, but only because he'd manhandled me away from his precious Slayer and into his motor. I can feel the irritation coming from him in the other room, and I'll be he's already wishing he'd left me in Sunnyhell.

I know I am.

Once the poof sets his mind to something, however, he'll see it through to the bitter end. That aspect of his personality hadn't changed with him gaining a soul. And since I'm his new project, he won't leave me alone until he's earned his 'I helped Spike' merit badge. Which means I'm stuck with him, no matter how much he's hurting me, rather than helping.

I feel him behind me, most likely making a face at the mess I'd made. Angel takes his neatness seriously. After all, cleanliness is next to Godliness, and the souled freak is desperately striving for redemption.

I turn to prove myself right, only to find him looking at me, not with annoyed disgust, but with... desire? "What're you staring at, ducks?" I ask.

He crosses to me, and I want to flinch back, to keep away from those hands that are reaching for me. Don't touch me, I think. I'll hurt worse if you touch me. You're still in love with Buffy, not me.

"You're so thin," Angel murmurs, his large hands spanning my waist. I can feel his fingers meet in the center of my back, and, when I look down, I see that his thumbs are close to touching.

"I'm on the Callista Flockhart diet plan," I tell him caustically. What did he expect? The blood sitting untouched in the mug on the night-stand is the first non-drugged meal I've had in weeks.

I lift my gaze to meet his, and there's no mistaking the desire this time. He wants me. It's as plain as the honker on his face.

He doesn't make another advance, though. His bleedin' conscience won't let him.

So I raise my mouth and close my eyes and give him the permission his fucking soul needs.

I let him kiss me and touch me. I let him rub himself against me. I let him press me to my knees and push his hardness between my lips.

I swallow.

I let him strip me and lay me on the bed. I let him stroke me, both inside and out. I let him tell me not to come.

I obey.

I press my face into the pillow as he enters me, his body blanketing my back. I raise my hips slightly, giving him full access as he slowly thrusts. I briefly wonder if he's thinking he's fucking Buffy as he fucks me. Or if he's comparing her hot cunt to my cool anus. Or, if he had time for a bit of kink before losing his soul, he's comparing her hole to mine.

I savor the feeling of his cock up my ass. He's taking me so slowly, dragging his pleasure out, and since he's already come once he'll be fucking me for a long while. I can tell he's forgotten about my swollen shaft, and with my hips arched as they are, I won't be orgasming any time soon.

I don't mind.

Because I'm burying my tears in the pillow, trying to keep my crying silent. He mustn't know that I'm blubbering like a soddin' baby. He mustn't know that I'm not as indifferent as I seem. He mustn't know that I'm still in love with him, despite all that's happened over the years.

He mustn't know that I'm remembering Florence. Of sinking my fangs into that soft swell of flesh below his navel. Of him writhing in pleasure beneath me, and holding my head to him as I drank his blood. Of him saying:

"An eternity, William, will not be long enough with you."

I know this means nothing to him but sex. It shouldn't mean anything but sex to me, either, but it doesn't. To me, it means the end of a beginning that never happened.

He climaxes with a hiss, nameless endearments on his lips, and I feel his cock pulse inside me. Fill me up, sire, I think. Give me a part of you that will stay with me when you leave, even if it's for a brief time.

Fuck, I've turned into a bloody maudlin git.

I wipe my tears on the pillow and curl up beside him on the bed as he pants needlessly. My cock is painfully hard, but I ignore it as best I can. He murmurs meaningless words of post-ogasmic bliss, and I falsely echo them, then silently listen until his useless breathing stops and I know he's fallen asleep.

I get up, put on my trousers, and turn to look at him. My sire's sprawled comfortably on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, his other hand resting on the gentle swell of his abdomen, sound asleep. I reckon the past twenty-four have been a real bugger.

Has it really only been twenty-four hours? Oi.

I grab the mug off the night-stand and wander out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. The blood goes down the sink in the kitchen, the mug placed upside down on the light blue sink mat. I take a seat at the kitchen table, fold my arms on the scarred surface, and lay my head on them.

I feel hollow inside.  
In the past day, I've resigned myself to asking my mortal enemy for help; begged my sire to save me; gotten recaptured by the bastards who bolloxed me up to begin with; hurt myself; trusted my sire; been betrayed by my sire; dominated my sire; truly lost my sire and had my heart eviscerated; escaped; realized I still loved my sire; got brought to LA; acted like a girl; got fucked by my sire; and brooded.

"'Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it.'"

And now I'm singing. Bugger, I need a fag.

**End**


End file.
